I want to make this clear. When I say Knackers, I don’t mean tinkers.
If I want to talk about tinkers, I’ll say Tinkers and that will be your clue that I mean Tinkers. It’ll be our special code-word.
So, no, I’m not talking about tinkers, but I will. Sure as little apples, I will. However, this evening I wanted to share with you my views on knackers, by which I mean dirty, lazy, useless fucking skobes. Lazy, ignorant miserable fuckers who want to do fuck-all except sponge off the rest of us.
Ooooppss!! Here come the social workers with Issues Around This. (Isn’t it strange how these people won’t say‚about? Everything is Around, in a fuzzy lovey touchy-feely kind of way).
Right, then. Disclaimer Number Two coming up.
By Knackers, I don’t mean The Poor, and I don’t mean The Vulnerable.
The Poor are people who have fuck-all, who can’t get work because they’re unable, for whatever reason, or because they’re burdened with illness or physical disability, or because they’re old, and got fucked over by the rich sharks of the eighties and nineties. No, I don’t mean The Poor. The Poor couldn’t afford to buy their children quad-bikes, could they? Of course not : by definition, if you can afford such luxuries, you’re not poor.
I’m talking about lazy, self-centred, sponging fucking Knackers!
I saw two kids about four years old today, both dressed in navy track-suits with white hoodies and white baseball caps, screaming foul-mouthed abuse at their mother, and I was thinking, Christ, I can see the future!
How did that happen? They’re four and already they’re knackers. Their father is probably eighteen, and a knacker. Their grandfather might be thirty-two, a knacker and a thug. (Of course, that’s presuming their father and grandfather are actually two different people). For fucksake, their great-grandfather is only forty-six, a total skobe, a thug and a dyed-in-the-wool knacker, and their great-great-grandfather is a strong and fit sixty years of age. A complete bastard who’d bite your lips off if you looked at him crooked. At a pinch, even great-great-great grandad (74) would have a good go at you.
And you know what? Not one of these motherfuckers has ever worked a day in his life. Why would they, when they have wall-to-wall social workers who have concerns around them, and their at-risk children? It doesn’t matter how many baby Waynes and Deans, Harrisons, Tylers, Whitneys, Courtneys, Kileys, BeyoncÃ©s and Jodies these fuckers pop out. We’ll keep paying for them. Why? Is there some scheme to populate Ireland with violent Foetal Alcohol Syndrome halfwits?
You try being a genuinely vulnerable person.
Somebody who doesn’t scream and shout, because you’re too decent to behave that way. Somebody who sits quietly at home and wishes they had a home help for an hour a day. Someone who doesn’t demand a house. Someone who doesn’t accost and threaten Health Board employees in the car park. Oh, you think I’m joking? Let me tell you something: it’s not the decent quiet people who get a State-funded house in the quiet suburbs. It’s the loud, aggressive, abusive ones.
Better still, why don’t you become an old person, break your hip and see how the services rally round to help you.
Dream on. The services are run by people just like you and me, with homes to go to and kids to worry about. They don’t need knackers waiting for them outside their offices in the early morning, as sometimes happens to Health Board staff. They don’t need skobes screaming at them across a desk.
And, by wanting a quiet life, the services are so in thrall to knackers that you, the vulnerable old person, will be lucky ever to see a single soul before you die of malnutrition. Anyway, even if they do actually call on you, all they’ll do is ask you to count backwards from 10, before declaring you fit.
Of course, if you needed money for little Chakira’s tattoos and a new quad-bike for young Wayne, that would be a different matter.